


Back to back

by bluebells



Series: Optional Paz/Din continuity [7]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Graphic descriptions of first aid and wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The dizzying high of showing your back vs the anxiety of being stabbed there, They Make Do, Top tier Mandalorian first aid, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: In the long years that follow, there are many who would have gladly dozed at his side for even five minutes. They enjoy the shelter of his warrior’s reputation, but Din does not enjoy the prospect of showing them his back.With Paz, he doesn’t get a choice.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: Optional Paz/Din continuity [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980532
Comments: 10
Kudos: 269





	Back to back

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, the liberation of writing whatever tf you want without caring if it fits into any continuity? This high is dangerous.

The last time Din fell asleep with someone at his back, he was twelve years old and on the cusp of swearing the Creed. The boy’s name was Coda, another foundling. A friend. It had been a long day of training and the mental trials of reciting Mandalore’s songs, history and customs, were more exhausting than any physical challenge. He and Coda had sprawled on a pair of benches, sweat cooling beneath their helmets, the off-key phrases of their peers lulling them to a brief respite.

Before that, it had been Din’s father. It was one week before the Separatist droids arrived. His mother was travelling. Din had stayed up late laughing at his father’s impressions of his rude uncle and listening, chin in hand, to the stories of how his parents romanced each other over a crate of meiloorun fruit. His parents were silly, but it was hard to wince when basking in the warmth of their love for him and each other. Din has no memory of actually falling asleep, but he does remember waking bundled in his parents’ sheets to the smell of his father’s cooking.

In the long years that follow, there are many who would have gladly dozed at his side for even five minutes. They enjoy the shelter of his warrior’s reputation, but Din does not enjoy the prospect of showing them his back.

With Paz, he doesn’t get a choice. 

“Be still,” the man growls, heavy hand on Din’s shoulder to ground him in his seat.

Din can feel Paz sway with the movement, unsteady on his feet. He scowls, tensing from the chill of the cool air on his back as much as the prospect of being flattened beneath that much armour. 

“Don’t fall on me,” he says.

“Shut up,” Paz mutters, and presses the edges of Din’s wound closed. Trails of the bacta wash drip cold down his back and into the lining of his waist.

There is no warning click or whirr of the tool when the first staple goes in, binding his flesh back together. 

_ “Nnnnh!” _ Din can’t help the full-body flinch. He grits his teeth, fist clenching on his knee to brace against the pain. His head spins. He’s sweating beneath his helmet and he slows his breaths to mitigate the feeling of claustrophobia that often claws at him when all he wants are deep, unhindered lungfuls of fresh air.

He wonders if Paz ever has this problem. Proud, creed-born and raised son of Mandalore. A lifetime of training to overcome such anxieties.

The older Mandalorian must feel him shaking, but he neither goads nor encourages the one beneath his hand. His touch is firm and his hands are quick. Four staples later and the vicious shrapnel wound snaking up Din’s back from his lower ribs is closed.

Panting, Din tries to look back over his shoulder. It pulls at the skin round his wound, so he doesn’t get far.

“You done?” he manages, voice low and rough.

The standard-issue multi-tool is slapped down on Din’s shoulder in response. Wincing, he reaches up to take it and shove it back in the medkit at his thigh. He’ll need to clean it properly later.

“No bandages,” Paz reminds him, as though Din had forgotten in the short span of minutes since they staggered and dragged each other free of the blast zone and found they were both short on supplies. A daily problem in covert life.

“It’s fine.” Din tugs his layers down. Not until his broken cuirass is back in place does he release the breath he’s been holding, tension shivering free from his shoulders.

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Din startles at the heavy thunk behind him, powerful enough to vibrate his seat of the storage crate. Whirling, he finds Paz on his knees, head bowed, leaning heavily against the crate, exhaustion in every trembling line of his frame.

Din’s heart skips a beat. He can still hear the occasional scream of blaster fire down the halls. The doors for this storage closet are shut for now, but what if someone thinks to check behind the debris? They can’t stay here. And the thought of hiding when the fight still rages… 

He thinks of a broad silhouette reaching down to him in a deep-set bunker.

They do not hide.

Clutching his side against the throbbing wound, he stands and leans forward as though his proximity alone might inspire Paz to his feet.

“Paz. We have to go.”

The man only sways on his knees. His breathing is loud and ragged. Din didn’t see him apply the bacta patches, couldn’t look when Paz had to lift his helmet and tend his wounds himself, but they had all been trained, had to trust he’d done it right. But maybe it was worse than they thought, maybe Paz--

“Just… I just need… a minute.”

Paz slumps forward and Din drops to a knee, catching his dead weight the moment before he would have tipped and greeted the duracrete visor-first.

The wound in Din’s side screams at the strain, vision swimming. Paz was their heavy infantry for a reason.

“Okay,” he growls, jaw grinding. It’s easier to snarl at Paz than acknowledge what it does to his nerves to have their front line of defence unconscious in his arms. “Just a minute.”

Din bites his tongue and by the time he’s dragged Paz to lean up against the wall, his own vision is going dark. Satisfied the larger man won’t fall from his prop against one of the braces, Din collapses down beside him. 

“Just a minute,” he promises them both, knocking Paz’s thick blue cuirass with his fist. 

Sighing, his helmet thunks back against the wall, Paz’s rough drags of air fill his ears, and he yields to the greedy shadows that drag him down into unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds) or [Tumblr](https://bellsybuilds.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **Permissions:** You do not need to ask for permission to make translations, podfics, fanfic or fanart for any of my stories-- I do ask that you link back to my original work and let me know because I would LOVE to share what you've created.


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